


The Weight of a Wanting Heart

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Older Characters, Post-Hogwarts, Retirement, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly two decades hidden away in the Wiltshire countryside, Draco Malfoy’s surprised to see a familiar face come into his local.</p><p><b>Career Choices:</b> Harry: retired/beekeeper; Draco: weathermancer</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of a Wanting Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).



> For [Prompt # 56](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NnIZtnyWEqbQHgi3U6N1CwbznCTkDeZGWJqgEw6KRrQ/).
> 
> Many thanks to the mods for their patience and to Vaysh for such an amazing prompt. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my fantastic beta N who pushed me to tell this story.

**i.**

The Wiltshire sky is summer blue, crisp and clear and bright above the rustling green leaves of the copse across the far field. It's beautiful for a Monday. Draco stops along the path to watch a tree sparrow sweep over the green barley grass he'd had planted in the spring. The crop's doing well, right on schedule for an August harvest, then for malting. A breeze ruffles his thinning hair, and he reaches up to smooth it back from his forehead. There's more true silver in the short strands now than he'd like to admit, and, despite the lavender and sage-scented creams Pans brings back for him every time she pops across the Channel to Paris, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes have deepened in recent years. Too much staring into shifting clouds and sunlight, perhaps, attempting to predict the week's weather and then counter with the necessary charms. Or, he supposes, it's merely the peril of finding oneself well into one's fifties.

Draco glances upwards, reaching into the pocket of his loose Hoggs field trousers for his wand. With a quick flick of it towards the sky and a whispered _aperiatur tempestas_ that sends ripples through the barley field, a string of numbers and compass points--ordinal and cardinal--shimmers in the air just long enough for Draco to scan them, then nod to himself. Rain's coming in the next few days, just as he knew. A strong storm too. He could feel it in the ache and crack of his fingers over breakfast. Even his mother'd complained of stiffness as she'd poured their tea, and when he'd left her to do his morning rounds, she'd been heading back upstairs to have another lie down. Recent years have been less than kind to Narcissa Black Malfoy, though for nearly seventy-eight years of age, she's still spry and sharp. Draco thinks the past two decades without his father have been good for them both, not that he'd ever admit that to his mother. Still, he knows the weight that loosened from him when Lucius Malfoy finally drank himself into an early grave. It'd been that recognition of relief that had changed him, had made him re-examine his own relationship with his son. He'd never wanted to become his father, not to Scorpius, not to the world at large.

A horn blares behind him as an ancient Moggy pickup bounces down the lane, a husky man hanging out the driver's window. "Going down the pub?" the man shouts as the Moggy shudders to a stop beside Draco. There's a streak of rust down the faded red paint of the bonnet. 

"Might do, if you're offering to buy," Draco counters. "When are you planning on scrapping that piece of shit, Stuart?"

Stuart just grins at him, his wide, florid face creasing. "Ginger still runs like a dream," he says, and Draco snorts as he clambers into the passenger's side. 

"Nightmare, more likely." Draco wedges his knees under the dash and holds on to the passenger door.

Ginger shrieks as Stuart shifts the gears, and she starts moving again with a jerk, and Draco has to catch himself smartly before his head hits the windscreen. He settles against the worn-thin upholstery of the seat, feeling the press of springs against his back. He can't help but wonder if his father's flipping in his grave, what with Draco's familiarity with the Muggles of Upton Lovell now. Draco sincerely hopes he is; it'd serve the damned bastard right.

"How's your Mum?" Stuart asks, deftly swerving to avoid old Mrs. Lewiston cycling obliviously down the side of the path, flowers from her garden spilling out of the basket on her bike. She raises her hand in greeting, and Draco waves back. 

"A bit off," he says. "Rain's coming."

Stuart glances up at the cloudless sky. "Is it then? Tomorrow?"

"By the weekend." Draco knows Stuart's revising his plans. Eighteen years he's been back at the Manor, running the day-to-day business of the estate, and during that time, the village has got used to the accuracy of Draco's weather predictions, coming to rely on him more than the reports off BBC Wiltshire. They wonder how he does it, but they'll never ask. He's just the London chap who'd bought up that old ruined manor house near Ash Copse and renovated it back into a working farm. Draco has no intention of letting them know he'd grown up among them, hidden away behind a glamour and a Muggle Repelling Charm that had disguised the ironwork gates and perfectly tended lawns. Stuart's his age, and sometimes Draco wonders what it was like for him, studying for GSCEs and A-levels without having to worry about a war looming in the background. 

"Caro doing well?" Draco asks, with a nod towards the photo of Stuart's first granddaughter that he's taped to the dash. Its stillness discomfits him; even after all these years among Muggles something about their photography still feels wrong. All of Scorpius's baby photos are filled with squirming legs and his son's many attempts to actually swallow his fist whole. Little Caroline feels trapped in time, her pursed mouth silent and fixed.

Stuart beams. "Sleeping through the night now, Gemma says, and I reckon she and Gav are right happy about that. You know how it is with the first one." Draco's smile is wry. Indeed he does. Scorpius was well into his first year before he finally stopped screaming his bloody head off at half three every morning. He and Elsi have yet to experience that joy themselves, though, despite all Draco's hints at wanting grandchildren soon. When Scorpius gets annoyed with him, Draco reminds him that Astoria would have been worse about demanding a grandchild to spoil, which always bittersweetly shifts the mood.

With a shudder and a thump, Ginger's engine stalls just as she rolls into the tiny scrap of asphalt that passes for a car park at the Prince Leopold. Draco eyes Stuart pointedly, but he just shrugs and stomps on the foot brake before throwing open his door. "Pint?" Stuart asks, utterly oblivious to his ridiculous parking job, and Draco shakes his head as he climbs out of the corroded pickup. Ginger'd been passed down to Stuart after his Da's death three springs past, and everyone in the village knew damned well she'd have to implode on herself before Stuart'd ever let her be put out to pasture, so to speak. Although Muggle motors and magic don't ordinarily mix well, Draco's found himself subjecting Ginger to the occasional Sticking Charm, and he suspects others in the village have their own rituals of helping to keep her roadworthy.

The Prince Leopold is a wide brick building, two storeys tall with white shutters that have hearts cut from the wood and a freshly painted red phone booth at the front, just to the side of the circular sign hanging above the steps. It's a country pub, not as flash as the gastropubs in London Town, but comfortable and solid with a deck off the back, just over the River Wylye. Sarah and Tarek like to host an excellent brunch on Sunday mornings, much to the dismay of Vicar Bob, who's actually been trying to get the villagers to attend services since his retreat on Iona last year. 

Stuart pushes open the door, and the savoury smell of the village's favorite steak and ale pies wafts out to meet them. Draco's stomach rumbles. He hadn't realised how hungry walking the fields had made him.

A square bar, white and pine, dominates the room, with the locals perched on high stools, all of them pestering Tarek for another round. Tarek pours a draught for Billy Wright as he nods to Draco and Stuart. "'Lo, lads," he says, wiping the ale from the side of the pint glass before he slides it over to Billy. "Usual?"

"Put 'em both on my tab," Stuart says as he hefts his bulk onto one of the stools. Draco knows better than to argue. He takes the Newcastle Brown that Tarek sets in front of him, and barely has to wait before Sarah has a ploughman's in front of him and Stuart both. 

"Haven't seen you recently," she says, a hand on his shoulder. 

"Getting over a bad month." Draco takes a bite of cheese and Sarah squeezes his shoulder gently. She understands what that means. Sarah was there the May Astoria died, bringing food for nearly a month and distracting Scorpius by taking him down to London for Tottenham matches and teaching him to knit scarves--both pastimes that his son keeps to this day. The worst fight Draco ever had with Scorpius was when he refused to let him invite Sarah to a Quidditch match. Draco's raised his son to appreciate Muggles, but there are limits. And Statutes of Secrecy to be maintained regardless of affinity.

Billy turns on his stool, pint in hand. "Did you hear the old Adlam place sold?" he asks to no one in particular, but they all look up, suddenly interested. 

"Someone paid money for that pile of stones?" Dickie Evans sets down his ale. "Really?"

"Reckon so," Billy says. "Estate agent from Salisbury--Ellie whatshername, the pretty one, you know, gorgeous blue eyes and brilliant backside? She had me out to fix the pipes on Tuesday. Said the city bloke'd be moving in this week."

Tarek wipes down a stretch of the bar. "Did she say who he was? Family man?"

Billy shrugs. "By himself, I reckon. She was a bit worried it'd be too much space for him out there alone at the end of the lane." 

A snort goes down the bar. Even Draco, as much as he'd loved London, prefers the solitude of the Wiltshire countryside to the larger towns now, although he travels to Berlin two or three times a year to visit Scorpius and Elsi. 

Billy points towards Draco with his pint, sloshing ale over his hand. "He's like you, though, Malfoy." For a moment Draco tenses, feeling all the sharp looks cast his way. They're not stupid, this lot, for all that they pretend not to notice particulars. He breathes out as Billy goes on. "London arsehole, wanting to settle down in the countryside." Billy yelps as Sarah pokes his shoulder hard.

"Draco's no London arsehole," she says. "He's as much Upton arsehole as you are."

"Well, he were once." Billy rubs his shoulder. "Right posh toff until he finally decided to get his hands dirty like the rest of us."

Stuart bites into a boiled egg. "Too true that," he says through a mouthful of crumbly yolk.

"Thanks, mate." Draco rolls his eyes. It'd taken years of seeing him out working the fields, on his own at first and then with the lads he'd hired from the surrounding villages now and then, before the good folk of Upton Lovell took him in as one of their own. 

Billy raises his glass. "New bloke likes bees, Ellie says. Plans to raise 'em himself in the back garden. Reckon that'll go right well." He snuffs a laugh into his ale. "Wager on how long it'll take the nutter to end up in Warminster A&E, all puffed up? Bees, I tell you." Billy takes another swig of his drink. "Bloody City lads. Idiots all."

"I'll drink to that," Draco says and downs his ale as Stuart thumps his back soundly, laughter all around him, warm and bright. This, he thinks, is what home feels like.

**ii.**

"Harry, where do you want this?" Ron's flushed face peers over the edge of a heavy, worn cabinet that's bobbing gently in the air. George is on the other side, wand in hand, long red hair pulled back from his face with one of his daughter's hair elastics. Roxanne is upstairs with Lily, purportedly helping to unpack Harry's closet, but Harry's fairly certain they're caught up in one of their family-famous talks about the latest boys whose hearts they're fiendishly about to break. Sometimes Harry can't believe his baby girl is nearly twenty-five. To him she'll always be the rumpled-haired, dirty-kneed scamp who spent most of her time chasing after her older brothers.

"Harry?" Ron's voice has a tinge of exasperation in it." Harry blinks at him. "This is bloody heavy, mate." 

George snorts. "Lazy sod." His brother flicks two fingers at him, and the cabinet tilts slightly, a drawer sliding out before they right it with their wands.

"In the lounge." Harry eyes the box he's been rifling through at the kitchen table. He's fairly certain his favourite saucepan was packed in this one, but it seems to have disappeared deeper into the depths of the box. He looks up again as Ron and George nearly clip off the stone lintel in the archway between the two rooms. "Careful!" He rubs his face, pushing his glasses onto his forehead. "Merlin's tits." His glasses thump back onto his nose.

Hermione hands him a mug of tea. "Breathe," she says with a smile, and she sinks into the chair beside him. Harry sits, the mug cupped between his palms. It's warm and comforting, and he inhales the fragrant steam. 

"Sorry," he says, taking a sip. Darjeeling. His favorite. "I've just never done this without--" He sighs. Sometimes he misses his ex-wife. Ginny'd been much more organised and knew her way around moving spells; he was pretty damn certain she'd never have lost a saucepan in an Expansion Charm.

"I know." Hermione sets her own mug on the table. "But it was time. Grimmauld Place is too big for you to be rattling around there by yourself."

Harry nods. It's been twelve years since he and Gin split up. She'd moved out; he'd stayed put. It'd been better that way, they'd both agreed. Grimmauld had been where the kids had grown up. Better for them to have it to come back to for summer hols. Ginny'd taken them for Christmas in Heidelberg--although she and Viktor had always made certain they were at Molly and Arthur's for Boxing Day--and all three of them had spent Easter hols in whatever part of the globe Viktor and the Harriers had a match. Harry's managed to remain friendly with both his ex and her new husband, much to the surprise of their family and friends; his and Gin's explosive rows had been legendary when they were married. The divorce had taken the pressure off both of them, Harry thinks. They could stop exhausting themselves with proving how much in love they weren't. It was a relief all round.

There's a thud and a muffled yelp from the lounge. "All fine," Ron shouts after a moment. "No need to Firecall the Healers."

Hermione rolls her eyes as Harry stays perched on the edge of his chair. "They really won't destroy your furniture, you realise, no matter how much they appear to be doing so." She brushes back a curl that's escaped from the loose knot at the nape of her neck. There's not a streak of grey in her hair yet, unlike Harry's. His temples are shot through with silver. Hermione says it looks distinguished. Harry just thinks it makes him look old.

"I'm more worried about them destroying each other," he says dryly as Ron and George emerge from the lounge and head back to the Floo for another round of furniture hauling, Ron hipchecking George into a wall, his laughter echoing down the hall. "You'd never know they're in their fifties."

"Brotherly rivalry." Hermione smiles and tugs the long sleeves of her cardigan over her knuckles. The morning's rain has chilled the late June air, but Hermione's also been too thin since her stint in St Mungo's last month for the mumblemumps she'd picked up from Rose's toddler, Nicola. "It keeps them young." 

She looks around the kitchen, and Harry follows her gaze, taking in the dark, heavy beams in the ceiling and the brick hearth, painted white so it blends into the walls. A fire already crackles away in it, spreading out a bit a warmth into the large room. The hob and refrigerator are new and Muggle, shining stainless steel monstrosities, and the wooden floor gleams golden under the recessed ceiling lights. "The house is nice," Hermione says after a moment. 

"Five bedrooms." Harry raises his mug. "Enough for all the kids to pop in with an extra visitor or two. Plenty of room for Jamie and Ems to bring the babies." Harry's only daughter-in-law is eight months preggers with their second child. Liam, their eldest, will be three in October, and has developed a well-earned reputation throughout the family of being a royal terror who'll only settle down for his grandad. Harry's got used to his son showing up in his Floo, looking exhausted, with a squirming Liam in tow. It amuses him, in fact. Christ knows Jamie'd worn him and Gin out when he'd hit two.

Hermione hmms into her tea. She doesn't look at Harry. "Isn't the Malfoy estate nearby?"

Harry'd been expecting this conversation. He's not surprised Hermione's the one to bring it up; Ron has never wanted to acknowledge Harry's on again, off again relationship with Draco. He sets his mug down and leans back in his chair with a sigh. "Okay," he says. "Yeah."

"Harry." Hermione's voice has that gentle warning tone which has exasperated him most of his life, and Harry stops her with an upheld hand. 

"I made a mistake last time," he says. "I let him go and I shouldn't have, and I want to see if I can change that."

He can hear the Floo pop and chime as Ron and George come back through. There's a shout of laughter, then the thud of boxes being deposited on the stone floor of the hall.

"Oh, Harry." Hermione covers his hand with hers. "It's been four years."

Harry shrugs. Time hasn't ever seemed to matter to him and Draco. Every time they pick up like they'd only seen each other yesterday. And it wasn't as if four years were the longest they'd been apart. There'd been the twenty years of their marriages, after all, between that first night of good wine and brilliant sex just after the war which they'd both regretted in the morning, and the next, Draco still grieving the loss of his wife and Harry still grieving his split with Gin. In the ten years since, they've found themselves walking away, then coming back together. There is, Harry will freely admit, a certain amount of perhaps self-destructive volatility in his relationship with Draco Malfoy. 

Hermione's fingers squeeze his, and then she moves her hand, sitting back in her chair. "So this house is some grand gesture--"

"No," Harry says quickly. "It's not just because of that. I wanted to be out of London. Fresh air, room for the bees and the kids…" He trails off and twists his mug of cooling tea between his palms. "I haven't been happy in town."

"I know." Hermione's voice is soft, hesitant. "But…"

He looks over at her. "I know it's a long shot," he admits. "Things didn't go so well last time between the two of us." She grimaces, and he stops. She's always blamed Draco for that last row, no matter how many times he's told her he was just as much to blame. Time for another tack. "Besides, I like this house, Hermione. It's a good investment and a proper place to retire, yeah? And if it happens to help me--"

"Woo Draco Malfoy back?" Hermione gives him a rueful smile. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Merlin on a broomstick, no!" Ron says from the doorway, a horrified look on his face. "Harry, have you lost your mind? Packing up with the Aurors and moving out to the countryside's bad enough. Adding Malfoy to the mix'll be a fucking disaster. As usual." He ignores his wife's pointed glare, turning a chair around and straddling it as he eyes Harry. "Besides, the fucker still owes me ten Galleons from our last poker game."

Harry stands, picking up his and Hermione's tea mugs and depositing them in the sink. "I'll make sure I let him know." 

"But really, mate?" When Harry turns around, Ron looks pensive. "It's just in and out again for you two. How many times has it been?"

"Three," Harry says. A lie, but just a tiny white one. Neither of his friends know about that first drunken shag almost thirty-five years ago. Christ, he's old now. Harry winces, then his face breaks into a wide smile. "What is it Ragmar Dorkins used to say? Fourth time's the charm?"

"More like twenty-fourth," Ron says morosely, slumping against the back of the chair. "And he's managed the Cannons. Look at what a disaster that's been my whole life." He leans his chin on his palm. "And I'm telling you, mate, you and Malfoy--the whole thing's doomed. Like my pennant hopes."

Harry flicks a wand at the sink and the sponge he'd tossed on the counter earlier zips across to the flowing tap and, wet, begins to scour out the mugs. "And yet every season you're still in our box seats." 

"Waiting to be crushed once more." Ron sits up. "It's a dysfunctional relationship, me and the Cannons." He points his finger at Harry as Harry comes back to the stack of boxes on the table. "Like you and Malfoy." 

"Oh, Ron," Hermione says in exasperation, standing up. "Don't force me into taking Harry's side on this."

Harry smiles as she grabs her husband's arm and pulls him back into the hallway, chiding him on the benefits of supporting one's friends even in their terrible decisions. Hermione's probably right, he realises. It's a mistake. He's known it since he first saw the property listing online. But all of this is probably mental, really. Walking away from the Head Auror position when he's only fifty-two. Moving out of London, away from the kids. Chasing a love that's been cold for a while.

Still, when he'd seen the words Upton Lovell beneath _5 bedroom cottage for sale_ his heart had stopped, then stuttered back, thudding so hard he could barely breathe. He'd been to this village once before, four years ago, just before that last conversation, the one where Draco'd kissed him goodbye, touching his cheek lightly, gently, as he'd turned away and walked out of Harry's life once more. Harry's stomach tightens. He doesn't want to think about that awful night or the sleepless nights since. He'd rather think about the nights before, the night spent in Draco's bedroom at the Manor, the night he'd looked out over the rolling fields of the estate from the warmth of the covers, seeing the lights of Upton Lovell shining past the copse.

The nights he'd been happy. The nights before he'd made the worst decision not of his life but of the past decade, at least. 

Harry wants to change that decision now, needs to at least to see if he can. Christ only knows if it's possible, but he can try. Right?

He stares down into depths of the opened box. A gleam of light catches his eye and he reaches for it, pulling out the damned saucepan he'd been looking for in the first place. He wants to take its recovery as a good omen. He's just not certain he's allowed those any more.

**iii.**

Friday night Draco finds himself back at the Prince Leopold. His mother has company down for the weekend, two of her ancient friends from London, Madeline Urquhart and Imogen Warrington. Terrible old gossips, the both of them, and Draco suspects that's precisely the reason Narcissa enjoys having them around. She manages to keep up with London news that way, and Draco admits he rather likes hearing the rumours once Maddie and Imsy have Flooed back home. He'd just prefer to remove himself from the initial fray of innuendo, sharp tongues and delighted laughter. He'd never thought he'd admit it, but the three of them are worse than Pansy, Blaise and himself, even on their best days.

Still, he's welcomed warmly at the Leopold, with Billy patting the stool beside him and bellowing for Draco to join him for a pint--which of course means Draco should pull out his wallet and slap down a tenner for ale for them both. Draco's halfway through his third pint for the night and Sarah's just set down another platful of chips that Draco's dousing with vinegar and salt when the door opens and the clamor of the pub falls silent. 

"What on earth," Draco starts, and then he looks up and realises what's caught their tongues, the lot of them. The new bloke's standing there, hat in hand, giving them all a small smile, and Draco can't breathe. _No. No, no, no, no._ "No," he says out loud, and for a moment he thinks that it's the ale causing him to see things, but he's had more drink than this before and hasn't hallucinated Harry bloody Potter in the middle of his local. 

And of course that's what it has to be. A trick of the light. Something wrong with his ocular nerve. Bad cheese, even, from lunch this afternoon. Anything but Harry Potter standing there, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and bloody well fit for his age in a pair of low-slung belted jeans and a crisp white button-down. Draco's suddenly conscious of his well-worn cords and his zip jumper. He never has to dress for the Leopold. If he'd come in tarted up, someone--most likely Tarek or Billy--would have taken the piss out of him. And rightly so. As it is, Harry's being silently judged as a City fellow, his shirt too pristine, his thick hair too artfully rumpled. 

Sarah breaks the silence, glancing at Draco, then back at Harry. "What'll you have?" she asks easily, and the tense hush slips away, the rest of the regulars turning back to their plates and their pints, albeit still with the quick side-eye Harry's way. 

"Rum and Coke, thanks. Zaya if you have it." Sarah nods, and Harry makes his way to the stool beside Draco's, much to Draco's dismay. The whole pub is watching them, and Draco can feel a hot prickle of embarrassment rush across his skin.

"Hullo, Draco," Harry says easily, as if it hasn't been four bloody years since the last time they'd spoken. Draco doesn't answer; he just reaches for his Newcastle Brown. 

Billy leans across him. "You're the bloke what bought up the Adlam place."

"That's me," Harry says. He holds out his hand to Billy. "Harry Potter." 

With a wary glance at Draco, Billy shakes Harry's hand. "Billy Munroe." He nods over at Dickie on Harry's other side. "That's Dickie Evans, Stuart and Charlotte Ponting, Mickey Rosenthal..." He goes 'round the pub, introducing the regulars, who raise a pint or nod Harry's way, and finally stopping at Vicar Bob, who's already off his stool, beefy hands already enveloping Harry's calloused one. 

"Welcome to Upton Lovell, Mr Potter," Vicar Bob booms. "Perhaps we'll see you at services?"

"Not bloody likely," Draco says into his beer, which earns him a frown from both Harry and the vicar. 

Harry recovers first and turns the ridiculous Potter charm on Vicar Bob. "I might make it by," he says and Draco knows damn well he's lying. "But I do tend to spend Sundays with my grandkids." He glances at Draco. "Jamie's got a boy now, with another on the way."

Draco just looks at him. He doesn't know what to say.

"You know our Draco, then?" Vicar Bob asks the question Draco knows everyone's dying to find out.

"We went to school in Scotland together." Harry takes the rum and Coke Tarek hands him. "Cheers."

Draco can't contain himself any longer. "What are you doing here?" he says quietly, even though he's damn well aware the rest of them are all listening in. "As I recall, all too well, you have a very important job in London?" The words spill out bitterly, reminding him off that last row they'd had, the one that had broken Draco's heart even though he hadn't realised it, the one in which Harry had chosen the Aurors above him and Draco had given in, with a regretful kiss goodbye. At first Draco'd thought he'd been fine with that choice, thought he'd even understood it. It'd smarted, of course, but he'd always known that Harry's job came before everyone. That'd been the reason Ginevra had left after all. If the Weasley girl hadn't managed to preempt the lure of the Auror force, Draco Malfoy had never had a bloody shot. Still, it feels like something's ripped open inside of him, remembering, pouring out of him painfully at the worst possible moment. 

Something shifts in the tone of the room. Billy sits up from his usual slump against the bar, Stuart's wife Charlotte narrows her eyes at Harry, and even Tarek crosses his arms against his chest, mouth tightening. It surprises Draco, but perhaps it shouldn't. All these years and he's finally part of this tiny community. He fits here. He's one of them. Harry's not.

Harry doesn't seem to notice. "I retired," he says, and Draco's hand clenches around his pint glass in shock. Harry gives him an easy smile. "Thought it was time to take up life in the country, yeah? A pensioner puttering about with his bees, and all."

"You don't putter," Draco can't help but say. The very idea of Harry Potter growing old is unthinkable to him, despite the heavy sprinkling of silver-grey through Harry's still thick hair and the deep creases in the corners of his eyes. When Draco looks at him, he can still see the boy Harry once was, the ridiculous child who had both infuriated and intrigued Draco throughout their adolescence. His stomach lurches when Harry's hand brushes his elbow, and he remembers Harry's touch against his skin, Harry pressing him into a mattress, his cock buried deep inside Draco's body. Draco jerks away. "Don't."

"Everything all right, Malfoy?" Stuart stands up, a comforting bulk at the corner of the square bar. 

Draco can't look away from Harry. "Yes, thank you." He pushes away his pint and unfolds himself from his stool. "I'm just finding myself rather tired all of a sudden." When Harry makes a move to stand as well, Draco scowls. "Don't even think about it, Potter." He lowers his voice, fully aware he's being listened to carefully. "Whatever you're up to, I can't do it. Not tonight. Not ever." He sees the flash of hurt in Harry's eyes, but Harry keeps a faint smile on his face. It reminds Draco of their last go-round, those ten months he'd shared Harry's bed whenever he'd made his way into London. It'd been brilliant until it wasn't, and they'd both learned to hide away their hurt and anger behind pleasant expressions.

Harry picks up his drink. "You know where to find me," he says as Draco moves past him. 

"Is Ginger outside?" Draco asks Stuart, and he nods, glancing at his wife as he reaches for the keys in his pocket. She gives him a small smile. Draco lets out a small huff of relief. He doesn't think he can Apparate back to the Manor. He's too upset and too tipsy. They'd probably find him Splinched in the middle of Up Street, and the whole Auror force would have to come out to Obliviate the horrified Muggles. On the whole, he'd rather avoid that particular embarrassment. Not to mention the possible harm to his neighbors. 

Draco doesn't look back at Harry as he heads for the door, but he knows Harry's watching him. He can feel it in the prickle that tenses his shoulder blades, and it takes all he has to place one foot in front of the other, trusting that Stuart's following him. 

The air outside is brisk and cool, nearly taking away Draco's breath as he pushes open the door. It's dark, the only light coming from the windows of the houses beyond the hedgerow. He can smell the roses that are blooming in the pots next to the phone booth and hear the soft gurgle of the River Wylye behind the pub. It's a brilliant early summer night, the stars shimmering above them, but the faint breeze carries the promise of rain. Draco barely notices it as it brushes across his skin. He's trembling, shock and fury twisting through him. To his relief, Stuart's silent as they make their way to Ginger, half-parked on the street. She's unlocked, as usual--there's no one in the whole of the Warminster area who'd be caught dead nicking her--and Draco slides onto her bench seat, slamming the door behind him. He leans forward and places his head on the dash, dropping his hands between his knees and watching them shake. Stuart turns the key, and Ginger rumbles to life. Draco sits back as she bounces out of the car park, hitting a hole in the asphalt on the way that jars Draco so badly his back teeth ache. 

They've turned off Up Street and onto Lovell Road before Stuart clears his throat. "Old friend back there?" He shifts the gear lever and Ginger whinges. 

"Something like that." Draco stares out the window at the dark fields rolling past. They're nearly at the edge of the Manor's holdings. Stuart turns Ginger's wheel, easing her onto the narrow road that winds its way up to the wrought iron gates. Draco sighs. "Ex, actually." He holds himself stiffly, waiting for whatever friendship he's forged with Stuart to shatter under the revelation that he's dated a man. 

To his surprise, Stuart just shrugs. "Thought that might be the lay of it." At Draco's bemused look, he grins. "What, you reckoned I'd be horrified? For Christ's sake, man, it's the twenty-first century. My nephew Bruce is a bit bent. Likes the blokes and the birds. His life, right? Makes not a whit of difference to me who either of you shag." 

They drive through the Manor gates. Draco keeps them open now that the glamour and most of the wards have been dropped. It seems ridiculous not to. His head swims and aches, and he presses a hand to his temple, wishing for a decent pain potion. He thinks his mother has one in her loo. 

"He's fit," Stuart says. Draco looks at him in disbelief. Stuart raises an eyebrow. "He is," he says again.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is not happening."

"Funny that he shows up here." The gravel of the lane crunches beneath Ginger's wheels. The yew hedges loom large on either side of them. Thank Merlin the last of the bloody white peacocks that had terrorised him during his childhood had finally died nine years ago. Draco's never had them replaced. Stuart glances at him. "Retired to Upton Lovell? He's a bit young for that, isn't he?"

"He had a demanding job in London." Draco's jaw tenses. He just wants to fall into bed and pretend this was all a bad dream. "Perhaps it finally broke his bloody damn brain."

Stuart stops Ginger between the silenced fountain and the Manor's front door. "Might not hurt to talk to him."

Or it might. Dreadfully. Draco opens Ginger's door and slides out. "The ride was appreciated."

Stuart nods. "Sleep on it, mate." He eyes Draco shrewdly. "Finding someone who looks at you the way that Potter does is pretty bloody rare, I'd say."

He's off again, wheels spinning in the light brown gravel, leaving Draco standing in front of the Manor's wide stone steps, utterly taken aback. 

 

**iv.**

The morning breaks warm and bright, the blue sky cloudless. Harry rolls out of bed, head still aching from too much rum the night before, and downs an entire phial of Hangover Potion in front of the en suite sink. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment, cataloguing the bags beneath his eyes, his rumpled hair, the greying stubble along his cheeks and jaw. He looks old, he thinks. Just over a month and he'll be fifty-three. A grandfather even. His body has changed from the lean, flexible strength of his twenties to a solid muscular bulk with the slightest curve of a paunch thanks to too many beers over the years. He's not the same man he was in his youth--nor even the one who, a decade past, had first pushed Draco sodding Malfoy up against the wall in a Ministry hallway, kissing him roughly until they'd both gone senseless with want. Harry smiles faintly at his reflection. He's glad he's changed, to be honest. Looking back on that particular Harry...well. Harry doesn't think he'd have much liked him after all. 

A quick shower and a shave and then, after pulling on a pair of jeans and a Moutohora Macaws t-shirt that Al had brought back from his latest trip to New Zealand, Harry heads down the narrow stairs to the kitchen for a plate stacked high with toast and butter, a mug of tea, and a small pot of honey. He carries his breakfast out to the back garden, setting it on a circular stone table he'd picked up in Warminster the week before. The garden's in riotous full bloom, from wildflowers to peonies to roses to spikes of lavender, all filling the air with a rich heady perfume. Harry's bees are in heaven, buzzing around the flowers before heading back to the two large cypress hives tucked back in the corner. 

Harry settles into a teak garden chair, padded with thick chintz cushions, and spreads some honey over a piece of toast. He bites into it with relish, enjoying the sticky sweetness of his bees' honey. They'd done well enough in Grimmauld Place; he can't wait to see what they produce out here in the country. 

The sun is warm against his skin, and Harry props his bare feet up against another chair, closing his eyes. For the first time in days he relaxes.

A step on the gravel path wakes him up with a jolt. He sits up, feet falling to the grass, just as Draco rounds the corner of the house. He's wearing a grey polo shirt and jeans tucked into Hunter wellies. A Barbour wax jacket is draped over his arm, and Harry gives it a quizzical look.

"It's not raining," he points out like a damned fool.

"Yet." Draco stops a few feet away. Despite being meticulously neat as usual, he looks as if he's barely slept. Harry knows his tells--the slight redness in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. "Give it a few hours."

Harry checks the sky again. Still cloudless, but he trusts Draco's weathermancy skills. He used to take them into account before sending out Aurors into the field. Rain had a way of washing off evidence without the proper charms set. Better to be prepared. They look at each other, an awkward silence stretching out between them until Harry clears his throat and gestures towards another teak chair. "I'd offer tea, but I suspect it's gone cold, and it's never quite as good with a warming charm."

Draco sits gingerly on the edge of the chair. "I'm fine." He smoothes his black waxed Barbour across his lap and takes a deep breath. "Why are you here?"

"I liked the house," Harry says. At Draco's annoyed glare, he smiles. "It's true. Mostly. I wanted to move out of London."

"The Weasleys are in Devon," Draco says. Harry studies his face. There are lines that he hasn't seen before creasing the corners of Draco's mouth and Draco's hair is cropped shorter than it had been four years ago. It shines silver in the sunlight, setting off the light tan Draco's managed to maintain over the years of wandering the Manor fields. Harry likes it on him; he looks healthier and happier than the pasty, arrogant boy Harry had known back in school. 

"Wiltshire seemed a better fit."

Draco huffs and glances away. His fingers twist the waxed cotton of the jacket, leaving behind small wrinkles. He looks like a gentleman farmer now, which intrigues Harry. He'd always met Draco in town, in wizarding robes or Muggle suits, never in the casual clothes of the countryside. Draco's more relaxed here. More himself, really. Last night had surprised Harry, seeing how the Muggles had closed rank around a Malfoy, for Christ's sake. Harry'd known Draco had opened the Manor, dismantling the dark charms and the wards and the glamours his family had piled on the house for centuries. But he hadn't realised how embedded Draco had become in the community. How much they considered him one of their own.

That much had been made clear to him once Draco left the Prince Leopold.

"Why?" Draco asks finally. He looks back at Harry. "Four years ago I asked you to leave your job and you refused--"

"I wasn't ready," Harry says. He's thought about this a lot since that night. He knows he made the right decision then. "If I'd left London at that point, I would have done it for all the wrong reasons." He clasps his hands between his knees. There's a hangnail on one thumb. He rubs at it. "And then I would have resented you. You would have resented me." He glances up at Draco. "Then where would we be?"

Draco sighs. He looks out over the garden, towards the hives. "You took up beekeeping."

"Two years ago." Harry reaches for Draco's hand. He's surprised when Draco lets him curl his fingers around his. "I couldn't help but think about what you'd promised me. Quiet, peaceful, fields rolling out as far as the eye could see, my own garden with my own bees--"

"Proper honey, not that cack you'd buy from the market," Draco murmurs. His fingers slip through Harry's. "It didn't intrigue you then."

Harry shakes his head. "I wasn't ready," he says again.

"But why bees?" Draco watches a bee settle on the lip of a rose. 

"I could have a part of you with me." Harry strokes a thumb across the inside of Draco's wrist. He can feel the small shudder that goes through Draco before Draco pulls his hand away. Draco folds his arms across his chest. Harry recognises that move. He leans back in his chair, choosing his words with care. "After I left," he says, "I threw myself into work. I thought that was what I wanted--and I _did_ \--but then I realised I was lonely. I missed you."

Draco snorts. "I asked you--

"I know what you asked. I couldn't give it all up then, Draco." Harry runs a hand through his hair. "I was Head Auror. I was thinking about standing for Minister--"

"You'd be an utterly shit Minister," Draco says. He turns cool eyes on Harry. "You're far too open and trusting. The Opposition would eat you alive."

"They tried." Harry laughs. "That's when I started to think you'd been right. I've been married to my job for years. Even Gin agreed when I finally talked to her about it. That's why she left, she said. It wasn't just Viktor. She would've tried again with me if she'd thought there was any possibility that I might put her before the force."

It'd been a difficult conversation, that one. Harry thought it'd possibly been the first truly honest one they'd had since Lils was born. He'd always blamed Ginny for walking away, for cheating on him with Viktor that summer she'd spent reporting on the World Cup, for keeping their relationship hidden for another two years until she finally couldn't stand living with Harry one moment more. It'd been her choice, he'd thought, until he'd finally had to admit his own responsibility in the failure of their marriage, had to recognise the distance he'd crafted between them with his late nights in his office and his distraction at dinners, always thinking about the latest case loads or how best to deploy his Aurors. The job had become his family once the kids were off at Hogwarts, more precious to him than his own wife. 

Or, a few years later, his boyfriend.

Draco leans back into his chair, watching the slight breeze ripple through the tree leaves. "And now you're here. Divorced from the job."

Harry nods. He wants to touch Draco again, to reach out and let his fingers trail lightly over the pale gold skin of Draco's forearm. He wants to smell him, to inhale the scent of sun and soil. "I made an enormous mistake four years ago," he says.

"Because you weren't ready." Draco sounds sceptical. "For me."

"For this." Harry gestures around him. "I was terrified to retire. Terrified to leave the City. Terrified to…." He trails off, the words catching in his throat. 

Draco looks at him. "I laid myself bare that night," he says after a moment. "I offered you everything. I told you--" He swallows, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "The only other person I've said that to was Astoria."

"I know." Harry's voice is low. He can still hear those words, echoing from the past. _I love you. Stay with me. Here._ He can still remember how fucking scared he was, lying in the dark beside Draco, the only light coming from the moon framed in the open window, no streetlamps, no blaring car horns or the rumble of London's night buses. Just the soft clicks of crickets in the garden and fields beyond. 

"You left." Draco's gaze is fixed on Harry's face. Harry can feel heat spreading through his cheeks. "I told you I wanted you, and you left. And when I came after you, I wasn't enough. I'd never be enough, would I, Harry? Never enough to compete against your job, and your friends, and your family." He laughs bitterly. "At least I told Scorpius about us."

Harry's ashamed, and he knows he should be. "I told them," he says after a moment. "When I made this choice to move here. I told all three of them--Jamie, Al, Lily--I told them about us, and that I wanted to win you back--"

"Stop." Draco pushes himself out of the chair. " _Win_ me _back_? You honestly think you can just push your way back into my life, don't you? After four years. How very _Potter_ of you." He gives Harry a contemptuous look. "It doesn't matter if I've made a life for myself here. If I'm _happy_ here. All that matters is that Harry Potter's changed his mind and thinks maybe he might like another go-round with a Malfoy. Well, I'm done with that, and I'm done with you. I don't need you. I don't want you. And I bloody well don't give a damn about you any longer." Draco pulls his Barbour on. "In other words, to make it perfectly clear, you Gryffindor moron, fuck off," he says, swatting away a bee. "And take your sodding insects with you."

He turns on his heel and stomps off, sending gravel flying in his wake. 

All Harry can do is watch Draco walk away, his heart clenching in his chest. "That," he says to a bee that lands on the rim of his mug, "did not go the way I planned." 

The bee takes off again, with a soft buzz. 

"Fuck," Harry says, and he buries his head in his hands, cursing the stupidity of his younger self once more. 

Mabye Ron's right. Maybe this was a stupid idea. A stupid, ridiculous, incredibly _expensive_ idea. 

A bee brushes past his wrist, and Harry lifts his head, watching the bee float in the air in front of him. He loves his bees, has loved them from the beginning when he built his first hive. They'd reminded him of Draco, wary and dangerous, ready to sting at the slightest provocation. He'd dreamed about them for months beforehand, always hearing Draco's voice. _We could raise bees in the garden. Have their honey for tea._

He's been in love with Draco for years, he'd realised then. He'd just been too much of a fool to recognise that fact. To say it out loud. Harry knows how to love--his children, his friends, Ginny even--but it's harder for him to be in love. There's a difference. He can't explain it, but it's there, and he's only discovered it in Draco's absence. He loves Draco. He needs Draco. He's never stopped to wonder if Draco needs him.

Merlin. He's gone about this entirely wrong, hasn't he?

With a groan, Harry stands up. He doesn't know how to fix this yet. He just knows he has to do something.

Up Gryffindor, he thinks wryly, and goes inside to find his trainers. In a fit of pique Draco'd set the wards to block his Apparition into the Manor four years ago. It's going to be a long walk.

**v.**

Narcissa Malfoy suspects she _should_ be surprised to find Harry Potter standing in her favourite garden. Given Draco's black mood at breakfast, however, she's not entirely. Since their school days the two boys--and to her they will always be boys, never men--have had a rather tumultous relationship. Still, she's yet to forgive the Potter boy for breaking her son's heart. Bad enough that he had to lose Astoria far too early; that in itself had nearly destroyed him. And then he'd found Harry Potter, and she'd watched their on-again, off-again liaison shift and change until she'd seen the same light in Draco's eyes when he spoke of Potter that had sparked when he'd looked at Astoria. Her son had been lucky enough to fall in love twice--but love can be a great misfortune, as she knows full well. Love and life break a person, shattering them into shards that can take years to piece back together.

She takes the steps into the garden carefully, one hand on the stone railing, the other clasping the basket that holds her garden gloves and pruning shears. Draco inherited his skill with plants from her, although his talent at weathermancy came straight from her father. Papa had always been able to tell her when the best planting times were, and her gardens had been the envy of wizarding London. Today she just wants to gather a few roses for the table in her sitting room, hopefully before the afternoon storm rolls in. 

"Mr Potter," Narcissa says as she steps onto the perfectly green grass. She glances up at the sky, noting the grey clouds clustering over the cypress trees. She hasn't long before the rain begins. "What a pleasant surprise. I'm rather certain the last time we saw one another was at dinner four years ago."

Potter flushes and shoves his hands into his pockets. Narcissa dislikes denim trousers, as she's told her son each time he arrives at table in the wretched things. Still, she must admit they look well on Potter. She may be in her late seventies, but she's an eye yet for a well-built man. Potter's aged gracefully, and she feels a spark of annoyance that men aren't required to fight the downward pull of gravity in the same manner of women. Her waist might still be slim, but without proper lingerie her breasts hang lower than they've ever done.

"Sorry to intrude, Narcissa," Potter says, "but I was hoping to speak to Draco, if he's about."

"Ah." Narcissa sets her basket on the grass and straightens her belted Alice blue frock. Draco may have taken on Muggle fashions, but Narcissa prefers her wizarding garb. The Muggles who come into the Manor simply think her eccentric, caught in the fashions of the 1950s and earlier. Vintage, they say, as they marvel over the exquisite cut of her dresses, and it amuses her to let them think so. She's oddly fond of the Muggles--Stuart and Charlotte in particular. She likes to think it annoys her parents and husband in whatever afterlife they've found themselves. "Draco's not in at the moment. Is there a message I can pass along?"

Potter hesitates, then squares his shoulders, looking directly at her. "I think I've cocked up," he says. "If you'll pardon my language." 

Narcissa raises an eyebrow, then gestures to a bench beside an arbor of roses. Potter follows her, sitting down beside her on the cool stone. "Explain," Narcissa says.

"Four years ago I let him go," Potter says. He twists the hem of his shirt between his fingertips. Narcissa pushes down the urge to slap his hands away from the fabric before he stretches it out too far. Instead she just watches him, listening. Potter gives her a small smile. "It was the stupidest thing I've done."

"Obviously." Narcissa crosses one leg over her knee. Even at her age her posture is perfect, drilled into her before she was six by her mother and her governess. She'd been terrified of Miss Campanula, at least until the point her mother had the poor woman sacked for shagging Papa. So terribly cliche, after all. She eyes Potter. "So now you've shown up to do what? Destroy his peace? I rather think my son has recovered quite well from your affair."

"I know." Potter leans back against the arbor. "It's mental. And probably unfair. But I made a mistake." He looks over at her. "I bought a house down Up Street. So I'm not just showing up, begging for a second chance."

Narcissa brushes a few fallen rose petals from her lap. "This is a grand gesture then?" She lets her disdain for that possibility seep into her voice.

"Maybe." 

"Then why should I help you?" she asks. "Since that's what you're asking, I assume."

Potter shrugs. "It would make it easier to have your support. Draco listens to you."

Narcissa laughs wryly. "Does he? I rather think you're mistaken, Mr Potter."

"Harry," Potter says. "And if you think he doesn't, then you're being disingenuous."

She tilts her head, acknowledging the truth of his statement. "You still haven't given me an adequate reason for my assistance. I saw what you did to him." Her voice hardens. "You broke his heart. He was willing to give you all of this." She waves her hand at the garden, but she knows he takes her meaning. "All of him. There have been other men. Other women, even, since Astoria. He took pleasure in their company, but he never offered any of them his heart. Only you. And you tossed it back at him. So, again, Mr Potter, I ask you why I should help you?"

Potter is silent for a long moment, and then he stands, looking down at her. The breeze ruffles his greying hair. "Because I think I want to spend my life with him," he says finally. 

"Think or know?" she aks, far more gentle than she thought she'd be. There's something almost fragile about Potter now, his face open and vulnerable.

He licks his bottom lip, then nods. "Know. It just scared the shit out of me four years ago."

Narcissa hesitates, then she reaches up and plucks a perfect white rose from the arbor. She breathes in its heady scent, then hands it to Potter. "Lower fields," she says. "And if you hurt him again--"

Potter startles her silent when he leans in and kisses her cheek. "Thank you," he says, and then he's hurrying off, heading towards the path that will take him deeper into the estate. 

Narcissa hopes she hasn't made things worse. She sighs and stands, returning to her basket as the first fat drops of rain strike her skin. 

Only time will tell.

**vi.**

The rain pours down hard and fast, wetting Harry's hair, forming muddy puddles that suck at the soles of his trainers as he runs down the path. Harry's out of breath and soaked to the skin, his glasses spattered with drops of rain, before he finds Draco standing alongside a green field of barley, sheltered from the rain beneath the wide branches of an oak, the hood of his Barbour pulled up over his hair. He looks at Harry in surprise. 

"Are you mad?" he asks. "I warned you it would rain and here you are without a jacket--"

Harry manages to choke out an _obviously_ before he pushes Draco against the thick trunk of the tree and kisses him, hard and rough, his hands pushing the Barbour back, his wet fingers tangling in Draco's hair. Narcissa's rose drops into the thick mud at their feet, a pristine offering to whatever green gods of the countryside might be watching.

Draco stretches into the kiss, his mouth opening to Harry's, his hands catching the wet tshirt at Harry's hips. "Harry," he says, but Harry cuts him off again, nipping at Draco's lip. Thunder rumbles above them. 

"I love you," Harry says, and he kisses Draco again, cupping his hands around Draco's jaw. "I should have said it before, but--"

"You're an idiot." Draco's mouth catches Harry's, and Harry doesn't care that they're standing in a rainstorm. He wants to touch Draco, to feel his skin beneath his hands. He fumbles with the Barbour, pulling at the zip until he can slide his hands beneath the waxed fabric, under the soft cotton of Draco's polo. Draco gasps at Harry's wet touch, and his skin is hot and smooth beneath Harry's palms. "Harry," he says against Harry's mouth.

Harry's missed this, missed Draco. All these years he's wasted, being a damned fool. "I love you," he says again, and he pulls back to look at Draco's stunned face. "That's what this has been about. You. The bees--"

"You _are_ mad," Draco says, but his hands clench Harry's t-shirt tighter. The rain falls harder around them, droplets rustling through the leaves above them. Draco's hair is plastered to his head; rivulets of rain trickle down his temples. 

"Probably." Harry sweeps a thumb across Draco's bottom lip, and Draco's eyelashes flutter closed for the briefest of moments. "I want another chance with you. I won't balls it up this time. I promise."

Draco snorts, a harsh bark of incredulity. "Of course you will. You're a Gryffindor." He presses his forehead into Harry's shoulder. "I can't do it again."

Harry smoothes Draco's wet hair back from his forehead. He can smell the thick loamy scent of the fields around them, earthy and sweet. "Trust me," he whispers, one hand sliding down to curl around Draco's hip. The Barbour hangs loose, and Harry's fingers dip beneath the waistband of Draco's jeans. 

"That's a horrible idea," Draco says into the curve of Harry's throat. Harry can feel the catch of Draco's breath against his skin.

"I know."

"Harry," Draco says again, looking at him, and Harry knows what he wants because he wants it too. His fingers tighten against Draco's skin, and Harry needs this so badly that it only takes a blink and a breath to send them spinning away from the rain, their bodies thudding against the wall in Harry's kitchen before Draco can say, "please."

The Barbour hits the floor, and Draco's polo follows quickly. Harry bends down to press his mouth against Draco's nipple, flicking his tongue across the small nub just to hear Draco hiss. Draco's fingers tug at Harry's hair and pull him up into another eager kiss.

"Kit off," Draco manages to say, but Harry's already stepping back, hoisting his soaked t-shirt over his head, then shoving his sodden jeans down and to the side after he toes his trainers off. Draco's body is as lithe and strong as Harry remembers, and his hands are heavy on Harry's shoulders as he pushes Harry to his knees. Harry tugs at the zip of Draco's jeans, pushing them open and down enough that Harry can press his mouth to the soft cotton y-fronts stretched over the swell of Draco's cock.

Draco exhales slowly. One hand settles on Harry's shoulder. Harry watches the muscles across Draco's abdomen tense as Harry inches the y-fronts down over Draco's swollen cock. It didn't matter how many times he'd wanked to memories of this. Seeing Draco here with him, like this, prick hardening under Harry's breath….

"Christ," Harry says, and Draco's laugh is cut off by a groan as Harry takes him into his mouth. 

Harry sucks him, letting Draco push deeper, the head of his cock nearly gagging him. He doesn't care. He loves the feel of Draco in him, loves the press of Draco's hands on his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin as Draco bends over him, gasping, hips flexing when Harry's tongue flicks over his wet slit. Draco tastes salty and musky, and Harry can't help but reach down for his own heavy and hot prick.

With a swear, Draco tugs at Harry, and then Harry's on his feet again, his back against the wall as Draco kisses him roughly, bites his bottom lip. "I need," Draco starts to say, but the rest disappears into his ragged breath as his fingers dig into Harry's arse, lifting him up. "Legs," he chokes out.

Four years and Harry'd forgotten how strong Draco was. He wraps his legs around Draco's waist, held up by the wall and Draco's hips and hands. Their cocks slide together wetly, and a shudder goes through Harry. He grabs Draco's shoulders, not even caring that his glasses have been knocked askew. All that matters is that wave of pleasure at the friction of Draco's prick pressing against his. He's been with other blokes since Draco, but none of them have felt like this, none of them had known how much he'd wanted them to take control, to press _him_ against a wall and make him beg to come.

"Please." It's a whispered gasp against Draco's throat as Harry's teeth graze Draco's skin, and Draco's hips move harder, faster, grinding against Harry. 

Draco presses his mouth against Harry's hair. "I forgot how wanton you were, Potter."

Harry's laugh comes out as a huff that turns into a groan. He clutches Draco's back, pressing himself into Draco's thrust. His cock aches, and his heels dig into Draco's arse. "Don't stop."

"No intention." Draco nips at Harry's earlobe. His whole body is long and tight, and Harry wonders what they must look like, Draco's jeans around his knees, Harry clinging desperately to him, wet with rain and sweat. He turns his head and catches Draco's mouth again, open and eager. Kissing Draco has always been his aphrodisiac, the slide of their tongues together driving him wild with want. 

His body trembles, and he arches forward, rolling his hips against Draco as best as he can. He's so close; he needs this so much--

With a cry he comes, hands slipping on Draco's slick skin, spunk splattering between them, sticky and hot. Draco groans, biting Harry's jaw, and he ruts harder, pushing Harry's thighs wider as he throws his head back. Harry can't stop himself from dragging his teeth along that long expanse of throat. 

Draco's near silent when he comes, his only sound a ragged, harsh breath that catches before it becomes a gasp. Together they sink to the floor, Draco's knees hitting the smooth wood with a thud. Harry kisses Draco slowly, gently, his legs still wrapped around Draco's hips, his hands tight on Draco's shoulders, keeping him close. They sit there, twined together for a long moment, and then Draco pulls away, settling beside Harry on the floor. 

Harry flicks his fingers at the mess smeared across their skin, and it disappears. 

"I've missed your wandless magic," Draco says. He pushes his boots off, kicking them aside. His jeans follow. Harry lets his gaze slip appreciatively down Draco's body.

"I've missed your cock," he says.

Draco laughs and flexes his socked toes. He drops his hand over Harry's. Their fingers interlace loosely, and Draco's thumb traces small circles over Harry's skin. "I've missed _you_ ," Draco says after a moment. "You fucking pillock."

"Such sweet wooing." Harry looks over at him. "Do you know how long I've been planning this?"

"Your ridiculous beekeeping scheme?" Draco keeps his gaze fixed on their hands until Harry reaches across and lifts Draco's chin with two fingers. 

Harry studies the sharp angles and plans of Draco's face, his wary grey eyes and the soft scratch of his faint stubble. "I love you," he says again. "If I wasn't such a fucking coward I'd have told you years ago."

"True." Draco leans his head against Harry's shoulder. "Let it be entered into the record that I said it first, and Mr Potter's a poncy nonce."

"Prat." Harry can't hide the affection in his tone. 

Draco looks up at him. "You're truly retired, then. No dashing off to London to do something stupidly heroic anymore? No missing nights out because some idiot's cocked up their paperwork?"

"I've a paper thanking me for all my years of service," Harry says. "And an impressive watch upstairs. It's etched even."

"Don't try to seduce me with promises of your etchings." Draco punches Harry lightly in the thigh. "I'm not that kind of bloke."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "You prefer the kitchen floor, obviously."

"I'm too bloody old for this." Draco stretches and his back cracks. "You and your damn Gryffindor libido."

Harry leans in and kisses him, hard at first, tongue sweeping across the back of Draco's teeth, and then slowly, gently, his mouth lingering, loath to pull back. "Sad to say," he murmurs, lips brushing over Draco's, "my recharge rate runs a little slower now."

"Oh, thank God." Draco smiles into the kiss. "You nearly bloody killed me a decade ago." He lets his fingertips smooth over Harry's jaw as he pulls away, clambering to his feet. "Maybe you should show me this impressive watch?"

"I'd like that." Harry lets Draco tug him up. He catches Draco around the waist. "You don't have any plans for tonight?"

"What might a gentleman farmer do in a thunderstorm?" Draco slides away, his fingers circling around Harry's wrist as he pulls him to the staircase.

Harry laughs and lets himself be drawn along. "I think I have a few ideas."

Outside thunder cracks, and a heavy summer rain streams down the windowpanes.

**vii.**

Late July is warm, and the River Wylye sparkles in the bright sunlight as it wends its way past the garden deck of the Prince Leopold. Draco's spent a good hour outside with Sarah, smoothing tablecloths and setting out thick white earthenware plates as his mother fiddles with the centerpieces she's brought along, spherical crystal vases filled with white roses and blue hydrangeas from the Manor gardens.

"Darling," she says, frowning down at one, "does this look right?"

Draco eyes the arrangement critically. "It's only for Harry. He'll never notice if it's off a bit."

The French doors open and Tarek sticks his head out. "They're here." He's barely got the words out before half the village comes streaming past him, Vicar Bob and Stuart at the head. Draco checks his watch. There's only another five minutes before Hermione's promised to have Harry in. It's taken nearly an entire year for the wall of suspicion to fall between himself and Harry's friends, but he thinks they've managed it now. Draco hopes Harry realises how painful that particular process has been and bloody well appreciates that fact; the ridiculous amount of Galleons Draco's lost to Weasley in the past twelve months over poker games, Quidditch matches and darts had damned well better be worth it.

Pints of beer and glasses of summer wine are distributed among the throng, and Draco finds Stuart next to him before long. 

"So," Stuart says, taking in the creamy white flowers and Gryffindor red balloons that Draco's surreptitiously stuck to the lip of the roof. "All's well that ends well?" 

Draco snorts. "Wouldn't have taken you for a Shakespearean."

"I'm a man of many talents," Stuart says, raising his pint. He glances up at the balloons. "And if I'm not mistaken, that Sticking Charm on the left's going to let loose--" One of the balloons drifts from the roof, bouncing off the deck railing into the river below. "Yep."

"What?" Draco looks at him, astonished. 

Stuart just grins into his glass. "I never mentioned my Grandda was a Squib?"

"You fucking sod," Draco says, and Stuart laughs. "All these years."

Stuart shrugs. "Never seemed necessary. But now you're all happy families with Harry Potter…"

A smile tugs at Draco's mouth. "Someone might spoil your secret?"

"Something like that, yeah." Stuart gives him a direct look. "You're good, right? You seem happy."

"I am." A movement at the door catches Draco's eye, and a shout of _happy birthday_ rises from the crowd as Harry steps out onto the deck, blinking into the sun, Ron and Hermione behind him. Harry beams, looking as delighted--and fitter than any fifty-four-year-old has a right to look, in Draco's opinion as a fellow fifty-four-year-old. Draco smiles at Stuart. "Definitely happy."

"All I need to know." Stuart claps Draco's arm, nearly sloshing the wine from Draco's glass. "You better go give him congrats before we all swarm him."

Draco drains his glass, then sets it down on a table as he crosses the deck. Vicar Bob has Harry's ear already, but Draco slips his arm around Harry's waist and pulls his attention away from whatever plans for church renewal the vicar's nattering on about. 

"Hey," Harry says with a smile. "I thought the party was tonight."

"It is." Draco's spent the past month planning a grand birthday fête for the Manor ballroom. Half the Ministry's invited, as are their families--blood and chosen. Even Pansy's coming back early from Paris; in one of the more inexplicable happenstances of Draco's life, she and Harry have become fast friends--to the point Draco sometimes feels left out to his great annoyance. "I just thought perhaps you might like the village to stop by too." They've taken Harry as their own now, making room for him at the bar and popping by the cottage to purchase a pot or two of Harry's honey. 

Harry kisses Draco's cheek. "Thanks," he whispers. Draco just nods. Harry'll be more surprised tonight. He expects to see Lily and her latest boyfriend, as well as Jamie, Emma, and the children for dinner. Even Scorpius and Elsi are Flooing in from Berlin, despite her six-month baby bump. But Draco's also managed, with the assistance of Luna Lovegood-Scamander, to track down Al on some remote Peruvian mountain, caught up as usual in one of his naturalist trips. He has a Portkey to the Manor now, and if the lad doesn't arrive on time, Luna's promised to go collect his absent-minded arse herself and drag him to his father's party. 

There's nothing Harry likes more than to be surrounded by family. It's one of the things Draco loves about him, even if that means enduring a revolving door of ginger-haired Weasleys. 

"You're smirking," Harry says. His eyes narrow. "What have you planned, Malfoy?"

Draco snorts. He takes a flute of champagne from a tray that Sarah's passing around. "Shut it, Potter, and enjoy your birthday."

"No, really. Should I be concerned?"

Draco stops him with a kiss, and Harry relaxes. He takes the champagne from Draco and sips it. "I love you."

"I know." Draco reaches for Harry's hand. Here, surrounded by their friends and neighbors, he truly does.

He looks up into the cloudless summer blue of the Wiltshire sky and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/91903.html).


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